


Scrambled Eggs

by Bobsled_Hostage



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Brain Damage, Community: falloutkinkmeme, F/F, Fluff, Reading Aloud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage





	Scrambled Eggs

It didn’t get any easier after she left the Sierra Madre. After the Courier, that doggedly ancient lunatic, convinced her to leave the Casino and its ghosts behind. Convinced her that the cloud and the holograms and the ghost people would do a fine job guarding what secrets lay buried with Elijah in the vault.

Hours spent staring at the letters, knowing they represented sounds but never being able to put meaning to the symbols. No matter how hard she tried, they remained opaque. On the bad days she wished the machines at Y-17 had just scooped her brain out entirely instead of making a flashlight out of it, stuffing it full of electrodes and scrambling the parts she needed into a mess of lesions and crossed wires.

No more late nights staring at a terminal. No more notes scribbled in the margins of ancient blueprints. No more books.

 

 

It got a little easier after she found Veronica

 

Christine lay draped languidly across the bed, sheet half thrown across her, head pillowed in Veronica’s lap. Eyes closed, she listened to her lover rustling the pages of a newly minted paperback, hot off one of the Followers’ presses, the pages freshly cut. Veronica held the book open with one hand, splaying the long, slim fingers of the other (calloused where the joints of the power fist pinched the skin again and again) across the scarred dome of Christine’s skull. The Scribe made with an exaggerated clearing of her throat, giggling at the Knight’s irritated swat before beginning.

“It is possible I already had some presentiment of my future. The locked and rusted gate that stood before us, with wisps of river fog threading its spikes like the mountain paths…”


End file.
